


Lost in a Fairy Tale

by trimalchio



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-02-17 18:00:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2318348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trimalchio/pseuds/trimalchio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Naive teenagers make mistakes all the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Never happened, never will.
> 
> A/N 2: I'll get back to my other unfinished fic some day, hopefully.

Karim wore a thin, green sweatshirt, while he stood on the street corner with Olivier. He was sixteen years old, narrow-bodied, and aerodynamic. Olivier was much more handsome, so people tended to pay him more attention, but Karim always went with him, since there was safety in numbers.

Olivier was making eyes at some old guys at the bus stop, when Karim saw exactly the kid that he wanted. The kid was wearing an expensive, dark jacket, with a white headphone cord hanging out from underneath the kid's hood, dangling into his jacket pocket. Karim walked up behind the kid, who obviously didn't hear him. He purposefully walked straight into the kid, dipping his hand into the kid's jacket pocket and pulled on a wallet, getting his fingers tangled with the headphone cord. Karim pulled away, ripping the kid's headphones out of his ears.

“Hey!” the kid shouted, “What the fuck?”

Olivier evidently sensed something had gone wrong, having appeared at Karim's side magically, shoving the kid away, giving Karim a clear chance to run away, shouting after him, “Beat it, Karim!”

Karim sprinted, ignoring all of the shouts of annoyed walkers on the sidewalk. He shoved the wallet into his own pocket and took three steps at a time, as he went down into the Metro, taking two steps at a time.

Karim got onto the train, ignoring its destination, just as long as he could get some distance away. He could always get back somehow, rather easily. The Metro cops didn't give him a second glance when they walked through the car, looking for fare skippers. To them, he was just another kid on the train.

He flipped through the wallet, finding a student ID to the International School: Gonzalo Gerardo Higuaín. A train pass, thirty Euros, and a foreign credit card without a chip.Karim had to work quick on the credit card; surely the kid had noticed that his wallet was missing and was going to cancel the card sooner or later. He got off at the next stop and found the closest shoe store. Karim picked out a pair of sneakers. He hadn't gotten new shoes in a few years; his current pair were hand-me-downs from one of Olivier's friends. The cashier didn't care that Karim didn't look or sound anything like a Gonzalo Higuaín. Once the credit card was approved, she had him sign a slip and gave him no second thought, probably thinking he was actually Gonzalo Higuaín. She probably never thought about Karim again.

As he walked back, Karim broke the credit card in half and dropped it down a street drain. The kid probably didn't need more stress, especially after getting mugged. Karim might have been an asshole, but he wasn't a monster, by any stretch of the imagination.

He got back to Mathieu Debuchy's apartment, where Karim and Olivier had been staying for the last few nights. Karim would have been jealous of Debuchy, if Olivier hadn't been Karim's constant companion for nearly a year. Well, that was a lie; he was still jealous regardless of how long Olivier and Karim had stuck together beforehand. Debuchy lived with his roommate, Mathieu Valbuena, who Karim thought of as “Petit Mathieu,” since Debuchy was marginally taller than Petit Mathieu. Karim didn't want to think about Debuchy as a friend, mentally referring to him as his surname, always, even though Debuchy was remarkably decent to him.

“You okay, Karim?” Debuchy asked. He was sitting on the floor, in front of an old TV, with Olivier next to him. Karim shrugged. He was technically fine, but it had been kind of close, since he got snagged on the headphone cords. Karim's pulse still fluttered faster than usual.

“That kid, he started fucking screaming about his wallet, after you skipped out.”

“I'm lucky you were there.”

“Damn straight,” Olivier replied. He smiled and Karim felt as light as air. Olivier, Karim, and Debuchy shared McDonald's, hanging out near the river. They talked about football, television shows, whatever. Sometimes, Karim finally felt like a normal kid, but most of the time, he knew he was fairly worthless, kind of disposable.

The next day, while Debuchy was at work, Karim and Olivier went to a library in one of the better neighborhoods, in the city center, since they had free coffee in the café, after the breakfast rush. Since it was so cold, Karim wondered about frostbite in his new sneakers; he should have bought some more socks, too. Olivier flipped through a newspaper, while Karim went through the CDs, even though he didn't have a convenient way to listen to them. Or a library card, come to think of it.

At around 4PM, schoolkids filed into the building. Karim thought he recognized one of the boys, surrounded by his schoolmates. All of them were wearing uniforms: dark sweaters, dark pants, and ties.

“That's the life,” Olivier said, “Rich mom and dad. Rich friends. Everything taken care of you for your life.”

Karim nodded, looking back at his magazine.

“You need to find someplace else tonight,” Olivier said, “Mathieu wants alone time, tonight.”

Karim knew Debuchy didn't let them stay out of sheer kindness, but Karim still wanted to believe that he alone was special to Olivier.

He sat in a Starbucks until a half hour before it closed. Karim glanced around, seeing everyone in the building as a warm bed for the night, rather than as fifty Euros, as he usually did. He just didn't want to sleep outside in the wintertime. He was tired and actually just wanted to go to sleep in a bed, rather than a lumpy couch in a dirty apartment.

Karim left, just when he could tell the baristas were annoyed by his presence. Karim toyed with riding the Metro all night with the student train pass that had been the kid's wallet. Instead, he decided to take the bus across town to see a reliable customer.

Karim sat in the first open seat that he saw.

“I know you, don't I?” an unfamiliar voice said, next to him. Karim turned to look. It was the Kid. The definitive Kid.

“You stole my wallet!” the Kid said, sounding very surprised. He spoke French pretty well for someone who probably didn't speak it as his first language. At least, his accent didn't sound just right for the French language. In Paris, you heard everyone try to struggle through French in a variety of strangled accents. The Kid's French wasn't bad; it just sounded wrong to Karim's ears, in a discordant kind of way.

Karim had the wallet, sans credit card and thirty Euros. He shoved the wallet into the Kid's hands and hopped off the bus at the next stop. The kid followed him, holding out his student train pass, “You can have this. I already got a new one.”

Karim could tell the Kid pitied him and wanted to make himself feel better. Like the Kid didn't even notice that he was trying to reward a thief for mugging him. But he could use a train pass.

“We're about the same age. They won't notice you're not me,” the Kid said, still holding out for Karim to take.

Karim took it, snatching it away from the Kid, asking, “Why are you even bothering?”

“Because I don't need it.”

“I stole thirty Euros and I used your credit card,” Karim said. Sometimes, it was usually easiest to just admit the truth. Well, it was a truth that was self-evident.

“I just don't need the train pass anymore.”

Karim walked away, towards Zizou's place. He was the first person that Karim met in Paris. He even met Zizou before he met Olivier. Zizou was in his usual booth at the café, so Karim slid in across from him.

“Long time no see, Karim,” Zizou said, not looking up from his laptop, “Need some extra cash tonight?”

“Yeah. You busy?”

“Same as usual,” Zizou said, looking away from his laptop. He took a sip of coffee, “Where's your friend? The good looking one.”

“Busy.”

“What about Titi? Is he involved in this somehow?”

“No. Me and Olivier haven't really wanted to be around him lately. He's in a bad mood,” Karim said, not telling Zizou that the reason that he was in the café was because had such a little desire to hang around Titi. Titi was the money guy for Olivier and Karim, or had been. He was smart and sophisticated, while Karim was easily impressed. Olivier, on the other hand, didn't like Titi all that much and Karim was a slave to Olivier's opinions.

“Good. You should stay away from him,” Zizou replied. He paid his bill and Karim walked with Zizou to his apartment. Zizou was allegedly a writer, but Karim never saw anything that he published. He must have had a good day writing, since he was very talkative, prodding.

Zizou's apartment was bare bones, but clean. Karim went straight to the bedroom; it was best to get it all over with, so he could go to sleep right after. The problem with Zizou was that he fucked like he cared. He kept asking if Karim was okay and if that position was good for him. But the good thing about Zizou was that he never kicked Karim out right after. At least, Zizou gave Karim the night. Zizou was a good person, though it didn't matter much.

“How old are you, Karim?”

“Eighteen,” Karim replied. He had only turned sixteen in December, but he wasn't dumb. Zizou, for Karim, was different that all of the others. Mostly because Karim would feel bad if Zizou got busted. The others, Karim wouldn't give them a second thought while they were hauled off to the courthouse for their fine and jailtime.

“You've been eighteen for a long time, I bet,” Zizou replied. He wasn't dumb either.

“My birthday's only on leap years.”

“Where are you from?”

“Mars.”

“No, really. Where are you from?”

“Marseille,” Karim lied. Every other Algerian kid in France was from Marseille or Nice, so he'd fit in there, probably.

“Yeah? That's where I'm from, too,” Zizou said, sounding fond. He pulled Karim closer.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Karim woke up after an uncomfortable night sleep. He was restless. There was a note on the nightstand, under fifty-five Euros and an empty glass. Zizou's side of the bed was empty, presumably having gone to work. He took the Euros and the note, shoving them into his pocket. He drank a glass of orange juice and smeared jam on a slice of slightly stale bread that Karim found in Zizou's nearly barren cabinets.

He left, locking the door behind him, leaving the key in Zizou's mailbox. Karim went back to the library, waiting to go back to Debuchy's apartment until later. Karim sat at a table, flipping through a magazine that had a footballer on the cover. Someone sat down across from him, but Karim didn't look up.

“What's your name?” a familiar voice asked.

Karim looked up and the Kid was sitting across from him, wearing his private school uniform. Karim asked, “Why do you care?”

“I want to help you.”

“Fuck off. I don't need help.”

“I just want to be your friend, then.”

Karim got up to find another table, in a more deserted part of the library. The Kid followed him, like a duckling.

“Don't you have anything better to do?”

“Just homework.”

“Do that, then.”

Karim ended up leaving the library and sat on the stoop of the library building, before heading over to Debuchy's apartment, pulling his sweatshirt tightly. He should have borrowed one of Zizou's coats or a sweater. Debuchy was rolling and Olivier was smoking already. Karim kissed Olivier and Olivier blew smoke into his mouth. Karim wanted to keep Olivier close forever and lean against him, feeling his body heat and his bodily contours. Debuchy's friends were familiar; Karim had met most of them before.

The club was dark, smokey, and crowded. The bouncer didn't bother to ask for any of their Ids, even though Karim had only turned sixteen a few months before and Olivier was seventeen. No one really seemed to care about that kind of thing. Olivier and Debuchy were kissing in a corner, probably where they thought Karim wouldn't see. Despite what everyone believed, Karim wasn't stupid. Karim mostly sat with Petit Mathieu, making small talk, while everyone else danced. One of Debuchy's friends offered him a pill, saying it was ecstasy. Karim popped it in his mouth, washing it down with Petit Mathieu's drink.

It hit him like a punch. All of Karim's body parts became heavy and he felt sludgy and lost. Like he was melting into the floor, never to be seen again. It wasn't ecstasy. He knew that much.

“What is it?” he asked, but no one seemed to hear him. A cigarette haze settled over the dance floor, so thick he could have gotten lost in it, while Karim clung to a stool for dear life, hoping not to ooze into nothing.

After what felt like a three year struggle to remain existentially apart from the stool and the floor, the others declared their intentions to go to a new bar. Debuchy had his arm around Olivier's shoulder. Karim would have been mad, but his emotions stretched uncomfortably out in his brain and he couldn't bring himself to become enraged over the situation at hand. Karim followed, one of the last in line. He settled in the last row of the bus, behind Petit Mathieu. One of Debuchy's other friends, Rio probably, sat in his row with him, so Karim assumed they would remember him. Karim leaned his head against the cool glass window, shutting his eyes, thankful for the rest.

After what felt like seconds, someone tugged on his arm, murmuring, “Come on, buddy. Let's go.”

The person, his new best friend, helped him up and helped him off the bus. Karim didn't know where they were going, but it felt right somehow, so he kissed his helper on the cheek, nodding off a little while they walked. His friend shouldered all of Karim's weight.

Karim woke up with a hangover to rival the worst in the world. At least the bed was comfortable. Debuchy's friend had good taste, it seemed. Smooth, white sheets. He was in between awake and asleep for a long while, until someone poked Karim painfully, in between ribs. The clouds parted fully.

“Go away, Olivier,” Karim mumbled.

“I have to go to piano lessons. Can you hide under the bed until I get back?”

Karim opened an eye, to see the Kid standing over him. The Kid said again, “I'm not supposed to have guests in the house without asking my parents. Can you hide under the bed while I'm gone?”

“How..”

“You were asleep on the bus, so I helped you out. I think someone stole your shoes.”

Karim was too tired to argue, so he obliged the Kid, who eagerly sprayed his bedsheets with air freshener. He slid under the bed and fell back into a dreamless sleep.

He woke up several times before it actually stuck. The Kid was doing homework at his desk, when Karim crawled out form underneath the bed. There were several photographs taped above the Kid's desk, all in straight lines.

“Must have been some night,” the Kid replied, “You weren't wearing them on the bus, when I was there.”

Karim nodded and stood up, wobbly, like it was his first time walking.

“Where are you going?”

“Home,” Karim replied, not feeling like telling the Kid that he didn't technically have a home in Paris. He was probably going to have to go to Titi's place, but he planned on calling Zizou to see if he was at his apartment.

“I can call you a taxi.”

“I'll get the bus,” Karim said. The Kid stood up, placing his hand on Karim's elbow, steadying him.

“I'll help you get there. You might need to get more sleep,” the Kid assured him. Karim sat down on the edge of the Kid's bed, his knees weak and shaky. The kid's room was nice, in a way that rooms on sitcoms were nice: color-coordinated, clean, and bright with natural light coming in through a drawn window.

“What time is it?” Karim's breath tasted acrid on his tongue and his internal clock was wound incorrectly.

“Three-thirty.”

“Why are you doing homework at 3:30 on a Saturday?”

“I haven't done my homework in a week. I don't want to get detention next week, so I have to catch up.”

Karim had been given so many detentions when he still went to school that he was probably still supposed to be serving them, even though he hadn't been in Lyon in so long. Mostly for cutting classes and missing homework, not for actual reasons. Not for fighting or violence or anything.

“What's your name?” the Kid asked, “I'm Gonzalo.”

What did he have to lose by telling this kid? He seemed to be the only one who even cared. “Karim.”

“How old are you?”

Karim lied, as usual; he wasn't stupid, “Eighteen. How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

They were the same age. They were around the same height, same weight, same age. Same everything. Gonzalo gave Karim a pair of sneakers and they were the same shoe size. Except Gonzalo had a room, a house, all of that normal person stuff. Karim sometimes lived on his best friend's boyfriend's sofa and didn't have a real address. Everything that Gonzalo had, Karim didn't. It was just how the World worked.

What do you do all day?” Gonzalo asked, sounding genuinely curious, not scornful or anything mean. The underlying question wasn't “Do you steal wallets all day or what?” It was like Gonzalo was all surface.

“Nothing,” Karim replied.

“You don't go to school right? Since you're graduated.”

“I didn't graduate,” Karim replied. He hadn't finished high school. Even if he hadn't run away, he wouldn't be old enough to have completely finished.

“So where do you work?”

“I don't really.”

Gonzalo nodded. Again no judgment from Gonzalo.

There wasn't much to say really. They had nothing in common, other than their age, their height, their weight, their shoe size. Other than that, there was nothing binding them together, except for an instance where Karim had committed theft against Gonzalo. And ordinarily, that was enough to drive two people apart for eternity.

“Do you want to...”

“Do I want to do what?” Karim demanded, sharply.

“Do you want to hang out? You know, in the future,” Gonzalo asked. Loneliness lingered around Gonzalo like an unfortunate cologne. Karim didn't know what the polite response was, considering he had stolen Gonzalo's wallet and had also slept in his bed, after getting left behind on a bus, by his supposed friends.

“Sure, sure,” Karim said. It was only fair. Gonzalo seemed to care more than Olivier, anyway. Olivier probably didn't notice that Karim was no where to be found.

“Why were you on the bus last night?”

“I couldn't fall asleep, so I snuck out,” Gonzalo replied, seemingly proud of the fact that he had snuck out. Karim had snuck out, but it was so he could never go back. Gonzalo snuck back in, with homeless teenager in tow.

Eventually, he managed to escape and went back to Debuchy's apartment, a little part of Karim's belly hoped that Olivier was worried sick, all in a panic. Neither Debuchy or Olivier was there. Debuchy's roommate, Petit Mathieu, was in and let Karim in.

“We missed you last night, bud,” Petit Mathieu said, smiling, offering Karim a bottle of beer. Debuchy and Olivier were getting lunch, not worried at all. Karim fell asleep in Petit Mathieu's bed.

 


	3. Chapter 3

They met in the library. Karim had slept in after a late night, dragging himself into Debuchy's apartment at six in the morning. Olivier was asleep, in Debuchy's bed. Karim could hear their all of their snores from the sofa. In the afternoon, Karim went out to meet Gonzalo, wearing two sweaters he stole from the night before's client. He felt slightly crumpled and rubbed the sleep from his presumably bloodshot eyes.

Gonzalo, comparatively, looked pretty good. He was still wearing his school uniform, bent over his homework, at a library table. Gonzalo's hair was poufy, like it was in revolt from his scalp. Karim sat down across from him, tapping his ragged, bitten fingernails expectantly on the tabletop.

Gonzalo looked up and smiled. He shut his textbooks and shoved them into his backpack. He asked, “Do you know of anything tourists should see?”

Karim shrugged, “I'm not from Paris. I don't know what you'd want to see.”

“I should have brought my guidebook,” Gonzalo said, “Where are you really from, if you're not from Paris?”

Karim shrugged yet again, “Where are _you_ really from? Your accent isn't French.”

“Argentina,” Gonzalo said. They slipped out into the crowded streets, anonymous amongst the masses. The stinging wind nipped at Karim's exposed ears. Gonzalo had pulled up his hood. Karim had left his sweatshirt at Debuchy's apartment, leaving him without a hood as well.

“Why are you here?”

“Why am I where?”

“In Paris? Why are you in Paris?”

“My dad got a job in Paris. He's the manager of Paris St-Germain.”

“Oh.” It was an “oh” that said a lot, mostly things that Karim hadn't intended to say.

Gonzalo shrugged, “He used to be the manager of River Plate, in Buenos Aires.”

Karim didn't say anything, judging his situation and how little sense it actually made. Karim had woken up a torn flannel sofa in an apartment that didn't belong to him or a guardian. Gonzalo's parents' apartment was expensive and had been tastefully decorated, probably by a professional. And his dad made big money, hanging out with rich people all day.

“Where did you want to go?” Gonzalo said, after they had walked for nearly a block not speaking, “What about Montmartre?”

“What _about_ Montmartre?” Karim asked. There were a ton of pickpockets who hung around Montmartre, scamming dumb tourists who visited after seeing _Moulin Rouge._ He wasn't even sure why anyone had built a windmill in Montmartre. Maybe in olden times, it was exciting and exotic, but considering it was next to fast food restaurants and around the corner were dozens of tourists shops, it wasn't too thrilling. The fact that there were pickpockets wasn't a good mix, probably since they were better than Karim at petty theft. Gonzalo would be out of a second wallet before he noticed anything. Gonzalo would probably try to befriend the thief and Karim would have no friends that Olivier hadn't met first.

“Is that a good place to visit?”

“No.”

“What about a museum? Know any good ones?”

“What kind?” Karim asked. Olivier never mentioned any, nor had Debuchy or Petit Mathieu. Actually, Karim wasn't quite sure what Olivier and Debuchy did all day. Surely, they couldn't have sex in all of the waking hours of a day. Maybe they did tourist things, like go to museums and eat in overpriced fast food restaurants across the street from tombs or whatever.

“Where's Napoleon buried?”

“I don't know,” Karim replied, “Probably that big cemetery where all of those other dead famous people are.”

And that's where they decided to go. Gonzalo had taken a brochure at the entrance. One of the first of the famous graves they passed was Oscar Wilde, whom Karim had only vague heard of before. It depicted a flying person and the whole grave was surrounded by glass that was covered in pink lipstick stains. Gonzalo straggled behind as they went further into the cemetery, eyes glued to his brochure.

“Jim Morrison is here,” Gonzalo announced, as though Karim was supposed to know who that was.

“Who?”

“He's a famous singer from America.”

“Is Napoleon here?” Karim asked, reading an epitaph on one of the plainer gravers. Gonzalo hadn't taken his nose out of the brochure for the entirety of their visit to the cemetery and Karim was starting to feel a little resentful.

“I don't see his name here.”

They passed other famous people's graves, where tourists lingered, leaving tributes to people who lived long before their time and never knew them. One man, wearing a baseball cap that a purple C and R across the front, left a full bouquet of Edith Piaf's grave, which was already covered in flowers. There were other graves in the cemetery that didn't have anything at all. Would Edith Piaf have even thanked the man, were they to actually meet in the flesh? Maybe out of politeness.

Gonzalo asked a worker if Napoleon's grave was in the cemetery. The worker smirked, like it was a factoid that the worker had been endowed with at birth, “He's actually buried at Invalides. Napoleon's son, Alexandre, is here, though. He's in a chapel in Division 66.”

Napoleon's son was in a family chapel with the name “Walewski” across the top in bronze. It was white with a metal door, adorned with a cut out cross, and compared to some of the other graves, like the one with the statue of a man laying on top of the grave with a rubbed raw cock, it was downright plain. No one left anything for Napoleon's son, like he was forgotten. However, Karim couldn't feel too bad for Alexandre, considering he was in a chapel with family members.

“He was Napoleon's son by his mistress, a Polish countess,” Gonzalo read from his brochure.

“Do you think he grew up in Poland or in France?” Karim said, not really expecting an answer, “His mom was pretty important in Poland, I guess. And his dad was the head of France for a while.”

“He probably didn't know his dad,” Gonzalo said. They started to walk back from the Walewski family chapel. Gonzalo continued, “I think Napoleon died on an island or something.”

Karim knew that Napoleon died on St. Helena and had lived on Elba for a while, too. As little as he paid attention in school, that particular fact was inescapable. He just didn't know how long he had been on St. Helena.

“Maybe he visited Napoleon on St. Helena.”

“Maybe. That was a really long trip in those times.”

They studied the chapel for a while, until Gonzalo declared, “This is kind of boring.”

“You don't have any more facts to read from the brochure?”

“Not about Walewski. I have a lot about Oscar Wilde to tell you about.”

As they hiked back up to the entrance near the Métro, Karim asked, “Why are you interested in Napoleon?”

Gonzalo shrugged, “He's kind of romantic, isn't he? All horses and stiff collars and stuff, right?”

“That's what's romantic?”

“You know, like with old movies and stuff, like _The Count of Monte Cristo_ ,” Gonzalo replied, “So where are you really from?”

He didn't want to necessarily lie to Gonzalo, but at the same time, he didn't want to say. Karim said, “Five hundred kilometers from here.”

“Like in a radius from here?”

“I'm simultaneously from Holland, Switzerland, and France.”

“I'm going to look that up. The French city 500 kilometers away. I'll find out where you're from. I'm smart that way.”

Gonzalo had finally put away the brochure and was looking at Karim. Really looking. And Karim didn't mind. He was about to lean in when Gonzalo said, “We should go to Les Invalides, next time.”

“Next time?”

“I'm making sure there's a next time,” Gonzalo said, unwinding his scarf from around his neck and handing it to Karim.

Karim took it and said, “You're weird.”

Gonzalo shrugged, swinging his backpack as he walked away.

Karim went to Zizou's spot in the café. He had wrapped Gonzalo's scarf around his neck; it was a weird gift, but Karim wasn't dumb. It was cold and the sky threatened snow. Karim sat down across from Zizou, as usual, wiping his nose.

“Bonjour ami,” Zizou didn't look up from his laptop, “I can't tonight. I've found a groove now.”

Karim nodded, almost disappointed. He had been a little excited to talk about Napoleon. Zizou was smart and writing a book, so naturally, he had to know a little bit about Napoleon. Karim, however, went on his way.

He went to one of the usual places: a bus stop that everyone knew was a pickup spot. Olivier was usually with Karim, but with Olivier's growing devotion to Debuchy, their own friendship had dwindled.

Karim was sixteen and looked sixteen; it was probably his personal appeal. He still hadn't reached his full height (he hoped), he had blotchy acne along his jaw, and his limbs didn't feel under his complete control. He was awkward and gangling. Olivier was beautiful and Karim looked young. Those were their schticks.

The others near the bus stop didn't pay Karim any mind. Karim was just another kid on the street. Scrapping together money for temporary security. With Olivier, he was competition.

Some guy approached Karim; the guy was wearing a tie and negotiated by holding out two €20 bills. Karim took it, shoving the bills into his pocket without folding them first. They walked to a crusty apartment building, in silent agreement. The guy was probably in his forties or something. Karim wasn't too good at guessing ages. He seemed excessively normal: white, brown hair, standard guy.

They were in the stairwell, in a neglected corner, tucked away from prying eyes. He knelt down, onto the cool tile flooring, which had a healthy layer of gravel and pebbles covering it, digging into his knees. The guy placed his hands on the top of Karim's head, pulling his head back and forth. Karim pulled on the guy's pockets, his fingers tangled in belt loops. The guy moaned, low and soft. After the guy came, Karim spat it all out on the floor.

Karim dusted his knees off and took a seat next to the guy, who had sat down on the stairs, lighting a cigarette, “Are you okay?”

The guy nodded, exhaling; smoke curled out of his nostrils, “Where are you from?”

“Lyon,” Karim replied. He had gotten the money for his train ticket to Paris by sneaking a few Euros from his foster father's wallet over the course of five weeks. Once Karim decided to run away, he started hoarding change.

“Was all of this worth it?”

“It's better than what I had.”

“That's really fucking sad. You deserve better.”

Some assholes really liked pontificating on the morals of exploitations. They usually paid a little bit more than the other assholes, but they were also a lot more fucking annoying. Karim knew what they wanted to hear: some triumph of the human spirit and something that sounded honest. If he made it sound good, sometimes they would give him extra money before he left. They would feel guilty, but still went about their guilty business without much more thought.

Gonzalo was different than them. Karim didn't hold any illusions that Gonzalo would save him or anything, but it was nice to have a normal friend. Just really nice.

“No one deserves anything. You just get what you get.”

The guy passed his cigarette.

“What do you do during the day? You do normal kid stuff?”

“Why do you care?”

He liked the unrepentant assholes more. At least they weren't pretending to be better than anyone else.

“Just curious,” the guy's hand drifted onto Karim's knee.

Karim fixed Gonzalo's scarf reflexively, “Me and my friend went to see Napoleon's son's tomb.”

“Yeah? What'd you think?”

“It's kind of sad that no one left any flowers for him.”

Karim left soon thereafter, absconding with the guy's cigarette. A car pulled up next to him, window pulled down. Karim dropped the cigarette, crushing the nub underneath his borrowed sneaker, leaning down towards the open window.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 Titi showed up again, back from New York, rumors said. Karim slightly suspected he had been in jail, but had no proof either way, so it didn't really matter. In March, it was raining a lot more than it had been, but at least the bitterness wasn't always present in the wind. Karim saw him on line at a McDonald's, but Karim skipped out, alerting Olivier and Debuchy.

Olivier was mad, “You should have hit him.”

Karim ignored that, “Do you think we should skip town or something?”

“He doesn't know where you are, you'll be fine,” Debuchy said, “You know how many people live in Paris? A fucking lot.”

Karim's fears weren't particularly assuaged. Debuchy dealt weed for a living, so it wasn't like he was a secret genius. There were high school students who were bigger kingpins than Debuchy.

“Just don't disappear all the time,” Olivier said, “Be smart.”

“Yeah, be smart and read your book,” Debuchy smirked, turning back to face Olivier. Karim had been reading several books about Napoleon that he convinced Petit Mathieu to get from the nearby library. Petit Mathieu was quickly becoming Karim's favorite of his temporary roommates. At least, Petit Mathieu felt bad about the bus incident, so Karim could easily manipulate him. Petit Mathieu was also the only one that Karim had told about Gonzalo, knowing that Debuchy and Olivier would not care.

Karim met up with Gonzalo a few times since their trip to the cemetery. They went to Les Invalides, saw Napoleon's tomb, still separate from everyone. Alone in a hollow hall, while everyone living milled around it, staring at it, like he was a god or something. Karim had skipped to the end of the book, to see if Napoleon's son, the one from the cemetery, visited him on St. Helena. It turned out none of Napoleon's children or any of his family members had visited him on St. Helena. Not even for a week. He spent six years on St. Helena, so it wasn't like they had no chance.

Gonzalo was always sitting alone at his table in the library, when Karim stopped by for visits. He always smiled when Karim sat down across from him.

This time, Gonzalo looked concerned, “Are you okay?”

The previous night's guy had clocked him pretty good. Karim did try to lift the guy's phone, so he couldn't really blame him. So he had a black eye. Karim kicked the guy in the shin, so he could make a cleaner getaway.

“Yeah, it's fine.”

Gonzalo studied Karim's face, his eye, most likely. Eventually, he asked, “You want to come to my house for dinner?”

“Your parents want to meet the guy who stole your wallet?”

“They don't believe I have any friends. Sometimes, I like to prove them wrong.”

Gonzalo was prepared, giving Karim a school uniform from his own closet. Karim got changed in the library's bathroom and the two of them walked to Gonzalo's place. Karim should have known what he had gotten himself into when he had stayed in Gonzalo's room. Gonzalo lived in a house. A house in Paris.

A younger teenager was sitting at the dining room table, leaning over his homework. He looked up, stating bluntly, “You don't go to our school.”

Gonzalo said something nasty to his brother in Spanish.

“That's my brother, Lautaro,” Gonzalo jerked his tumb towards the teenager at the table, “He's a real pain in my ass.”

He grabbed Karim's arm and led him to his bedroom. It looked the same as it had a few months ago. Still light and airy.

Karim sat down at Gonzalo's desk, looking up at the pictures taped above it. Gonzalo was a little shorter in the pictures, smiling, arms around his friends. Most of the pictures were taken on a nice day in a park, somewhere in Buenos Aires. The sky was a bright blue and the grass was green and lush. Outside in Paris in Spring, it was still raining, at least once a week.

“This is in Argentina?”

“Yeah,” Gonzalo leaned in close, “This was Spring Day the year before we left for Paris.”

He pointed at a small pale kid, cleft chin, button eyes, “Leo.”

He pointed to another boy, more tanned, more mischievous, “Kun.”

He pointed to yet another boy, pausing with a smile spreading across his face, “Ezequiel.”

“You miss them?” Karim asked, slightly jealous of Gonzalo's nostalgic reaction to Ezequiel.

“Duh,” Gonzalo sank down onto his bed, “You know, I did the math. You're either from Lyon or Brest, if you're from France.”

“If I'm from a city,” Karim replied.

“You seem like you're from a city. You're just that kind of person,” Gonzalo shrugged, leaning forward onto his elbows, resting his feet on the headboard. Gonzalo's desk was at the end of his bed, so this was probably a more convenient way to talk, “You know, I was born in Brest.”

“I thought you were from Argentina. You talk about it all the time.”

“But I was born in Brest. My dad played for Stade Bretois when I was born. I don't remember it at all,” Gonzalo said, holding out his hand to grab Karim's. Just holding his hand. It was weird, but fine.

“Wouldn't have guessed that,” Karim said, “You have a lot of friends in your pictures.”

“Is that a backhanded way to figure out why I don't have any friends here?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You know what I like about you, Karim?”

“What?”

“You're a very honest person,” Gonzalo said, smirking, “So where are you from?”

Karim was about to lie about that, but there was a knock at Gonzalo's door. An attractive older woman, stately even, pushed open the door, saying something in Spanish. Gonzalo let go of Karim's hand immediately.

Gonzalo said, “Mom said dinner's going to be ready.”

Karim sat down next to Gonzalo at the table, while Mr. Higuaín sat at the head.

“What happened to your eye, Karim?” Mrs. Higuaín asked. Her French was nearly as good as Gonzalo's or Lautaro's, but it was still better than Karim's Spanish.

“I was playing football with my friends and got one good in the face,” Karim replied. They didn't know that Debuchy, Olivier, and Petit Mathieu had no time for football.

“Football? See Gonzalo, your friend is smart,” Mr. Higuaín smiled. Both of Gonzalo's parents seemed a lot like him: rather optimistic and vaguely naïve. Lautaro, on the other hand, didn't seem much like Gonzalo at all.

There was a family portrait that was across from Karim, hanging on the wall. Four sons, one mother, and one father. It looked perfect. Like no one was missing and no one else belonged. Like in that moment, there was no need for a world outside of that family portrait.

“What are you going to study in university?” Mrs. Higuaín asked. For the Higuaíns, university was a foregone conclusion. For all of the kids going to Gonzalo's school, it was a foregone conclusion. Gonzalo was probably going to go to a top university in a few years, in France or in Argentina and not bother with dumb, probably illiterate, uneducated Karim.

“I'm very interested in history,” Karim said. It was the only subject he knew anything about, even if it was because he read one biography about one guy.

“What about history interests you?”

“I think Napoleon is very interesting,” Karim said confidently; he had three still-to-be read biographies on Napoleon on Petit Mathieu's nightstand.

“Napoleon? Just Napoleon? What interests you about him?” Mr. Higuaín asked.

Gonzalo smiled, but didn't say anything.

“I've always wondered why no one visited him on St. Helena, when he was exiled for the second time. His wife didn't even visit him there.”

“Josephine was his wife, right?” Mrs. Higuaín asked.

“She was his first wife. She died while Napoleon was on Elba,” Karim said, surprised at much he had actually retained, “Napoleon locked himself away when he heard that she died because he was so sad.”

“So you think they truly loved each other?”

“I think so. I think she would have visited him on St. Helena.”

“So you like love stories, Karim?”

“It's an abandonment story. They still divorced and he still died alone without anyone who loved him.”

Lautaro mouthed something to Gonzalo. Karim touched Gonzalo's thigh under the table and pulled back almost immediately.

After dinner, Karim helped Mrs. Higuaín stack the dishes in the sink for the housekeeper to clean later, while Lautaro and Gonzalo sniped about something in the hall. Mr. Higuaín had excused himself to his office.

“We are so happy Pipita has a good friend. He didn't take our move well,” Mrs. Higuaín said, “I hope he'll miss Paris when we leave.”

“Why would you want him to miss it?”

“That way I know he loved something about this place. Otherwise, the only things Paris was good for were bullies and pickpockets,” she set a stack of plates down in the sink, looking at Karim thoughtfully, “Please treat him kindly, Karim.”

Karim went back into Gonzalo's room, studying the pictures above his desk. Especially the one with Ezequiel, the one for whom that unrestrained smile had been reserved for.

“What're you looking for?” Gonzalo said, interrupting Karim's concentration. Karim glanced up.

“For why you're unhappy here.”

“I'm fine right now.”  
“But your mom said you get bullied.”

“They smell the gayness on me.”

“That's no reason to bully you,” Karim said, helplessly, knowing he had nothing else to say.

“I know that. Call up my buddies at school and let them know,” Gonzalo said, flopping down onto his bed. He changed the topic, presumably because it was too depressing a topic, “So I like how you basically recited a guidebook for my parents.”

“I learned from the best.”

Karim climbed into Gonzalo's bed next to him. Gonzalo turned off the lights and pointed out the constellations in his glow-in-the-dark stickers stuck to his ceiling.


	5. Chapter 5

Because of Napoleon's campaigns in Italy and Egypt, a significant amount of artwork was taken to France to reside in French museums. The growing collection of art was so excessive that Napoleon hung the Mona Lisa in his bedroom and the Louvre, the largest art museum in the World, was briefly renamed the Museé Napoleon.

Gonzalo read happily from his brochure.

“You know, I know you're not eighteen yet,” Gonzalo said, as they walked through the Egyptian wing. Gonzalo had successfully argued with a cashier that Karim should get free admission into the Louvre, on the basis that they were both Parisian students, yet Karim had left his imaginary school ID at home.

“Yeah? How?”

“I just know.”

“Intuition?”

“Yeah.”

They stood in front of a giant stone pharaoh's head. Karim nodded, observing the whole thing. He wasn't actually sure what was so impressive on an artistic level, but he nodded anyway. It was impressive on a visceral level, probably the size of two Karim's, standing on top of each other. Karim didn't know much about ancient Egypt, but he did know that the pharaoh's nose was no Egyptian nose; it was snubbed and upturned, not any North African nose that Karim knew.

Gonzalo put his arm around Karim's shoulder. Karim didn't do anything to move away suddenly.

Eventually, they had found themselves in front of the Mona Lisa, along with a couple dozen other people. Karim had to stand on his tip toes to look over the heads of the others in the crowd to see the painting.

“This is kind of boring.”

“You're uncultured,” Gonzalo teased, “You don't appreciate it.”

“You think it's boring, too.”

“I saw it already. I've come here on a class trip.”

Karim tried to focus on the portrait, only the seeing the backs of the heads of the tourists in front of him, but Gonzalo grabbed him by the arm and led him deeper into the Louvre, explaining, “It's really not as exciting as the reputation would suggest.”

Karim followed close behind Gonzalo, who droned on from his brochure. Karim reached out and flicked Gonzalo's ear. Gonzalo touched his ear, reflexively and smiled.

“I think I know a gallery you'd really like,” Gonzalo said, flipping through his brochure. He shoved it into his jacket pocket and grabbed Karim's hand. Gonzalo wove through pockets of tourists, Karim trailing closely behind.

“Where are we going?”

“It's a surprise. It should be in the next room,” Gonzalo stopped short in the doorway, “Cover your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Because it's a really good surprise.”

Karim gave in, covering his eyes with his hands. Gonzalo tugged on his arm and led him through the gallery doorway, situating them somewhere in the middle of the room. Gonzalo said, “Open them.”

The painting was enormous, hung on an even bigger, red wall. Karim recognized the two in the center of the painting; a woman kneeling before a man, who held out a crown for the woman. Karim had only seen the center part of the painting in the picture inserts in his Napoleon biographies. The whole scene was of Napoleon's coronation, specifically crowning Josephine. There were so many people, crammed into the picture; why wouldn't they be? A coronation wouldn't be a solitary event. It was almost enough to forget about all of the stuff that happened later.

“It's pretty cool, huh?”

Karim nodded, staring at it, finding all of the corners and trying to soak the whole painting through his pores.

“You know, who that little kid is? The one in front of the woman?” Gonzalo put his left hand on Karim's shoulder and pointing with his right, “That's Napoleon's nephew.”

“Yeah? How do you know that?”

“Wikipedia.”

The gallery was mostly early eighteenth century French art, so everything was post-Revolution. Neoclassical David paintings inspired almost all of the art in the gallery. Gonzalo held Karim's hand, gripping tightly. They stopped in front of a far less impressive painting than of the Coronation of Napoleon. It was a man in a tricornered hat, with his military uniform on, staring out into the ocean on a rocky shore. In his gut, Karim knew exactly what the painting was about.

Karim reached out to touch Gonzalo's arm, just to ensure he wasn't alone himself. Karim often felt an overwhelming loneliness while reading the last few chapters of Napoleon's biographies, when Napoleon was exiled, abandoned by siblings and friends, even though he had given them so much.

Karim hadn't given anyone vast riches, gained from extended military campaigns, waged in exotic countries. He bought Olivier dinner a few times, but not fancy dinners. Mostly sandwiches, maybe a hamburger. It was certainly no Mona Lisa hanging in the bedroom. If Karim was to fall off the face of the Earth or went to jail, who would actually miss him? Petit Mathieu was very nice, but Karim was already mooching off of him and always eating his food. Petit Mathieu would probably be happy to see him gone. Olivier had Debuchy; they probably wouldn't notice if they never saw him again.

Gonzalo, on the other hand, was his. Karim didn't really understand why Gonzalo was so invested in this friendship, but Karim wasn't stupid enough to shun good will. He wasn't stupid enough to throw away something that felt so good.

Gonzalo held Karim's hand limply, staring up at the painting. Karim turned towards Gonzalo and smiled. He leaned in, pressing his lips against Gonzalo's. Gonzalo's body relaxed and Karim didn't want to pull away. He just wanted to always remain this close. This close to someone who didn't want anything more than Karim wanted to give.

Karim, though he wanted to stay suspended in that moment forever, broke away. They got chased out of the gallery by a prudish security guard, both gasping for breath, laughing.

As they waited for a Métro to arrive, Karim and Gonzalo held hands. Everything was good and it felt right.

They went to Gonzalo's house to watch TV. Mr. Higuaín was in Monaco for a match, while Mrs. Higuaín had gone with him, presumably to go to Monte Carlo. The housekeeper, an older woman with an old country accent, stayed late to make dinner even though it was Friday. Karim, Gonzalo, and Lautaro watched dubbed episodes of the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.

Karim had to leave before he wanted to, since Gonzalo didn't want him to leave.

“You should sleep over,” Gonzalo suggested, after the housekeeper left. Karim wanted to accept, but he eventually had to leave.

“Why do you have to leave?”

Karim had developed a schedule. First, he woke up at around two in the afternoon. Sometimes, he'd hang out with Petit Mathieu after he got back from work. Sometimes, he'd go hang out with Gonzalo. Other times, he'd go straight to Zizou's. If Karim was especially lucky, Olivier and he would watch TV. Then, at night, he'd go work, stand on corners or hang around parks. He'd go to bed, wake up, start the whole thing again.

Karim was thinking, considering that Thierry was back in Paris, it might be good to skip town soon. Head to some other city, find other people to bother.

He hung around the usual bus stop, meeting up with Olivier for the first time in a while. Debuchy and Olivier had gone on a trip, like normal people; Karim wasn't sure where to, but all he did know was that Karim, himself, had spent a good part of the week smoking with Petit Mathieu. Olivier smirked, sitting next to Karim on the pavement, “So, where have you been all day?”

“Went to the Louvre.”

“The Louvre?” Olivier teased, “How romantic. Who'd you go with”

“None of your business.”

“None of my business? Monsieur Benzema, how bold of you. Who's the lucky piece of ass?”

“Debuchy. He's two-timing on you.”

“You're not his type,” Olivier replied, “Come on. Tell me about him. Is he a lot older than us? It's not Zizou, is it?”

“Zizou still pays.”

“Good. Who is it?”

“Some kid our age.”

“No one I know?”

Karim shook his head, unless Olivier remembered the initial incident which had led Karim to meet Gonzalo, they hadn't met.

“I hope he's rich. Don't make my mistake, Karim: be a gold digger.”

Olivier went with one of the first men to walk through the bus stop; Karim watched Olivier get into a black sedan and disappear into the traffic. Karim ended up going to the park and hanging out there for a while. Olivier came back to Debuchy's apartment, stumbling, smelling like old beer. He laid on the couch next to Karim, even though it was very obvious there was not enough room for both of them. Olivier wriggled, so he was laying on top of Karim.

“Mathieu is in the other room,” Karim said, though he had been waiting for something like this for a year and a half.

“So? I'm looking for you.”

“You're really not fair,” Karim said into Olivier's neck.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The next time he saw Gonzalo, Karim had decided to go to the library that they usually met at. Gonzalo was sitting at a table with another boy that day. A good looking boy around their age, maybe a little older. He was an innocent kind of good-looking. Olivier knew exactly what he did to other people, but this boy had long dark eyelashes and probably didn't know to the same extent. Maybe he knew he was good-looking, but not how to exploit that fact.

Gonzalo didn't seem upset or nervous, as Karim would have usually assumed Gonzalo to be around other students from his school. Instead, he was smiling. A little nervous, but still struggling to hide a genuine smile.

“Are you the mysterious Karim Benzema?” the good-looking boy asked. His accent was decidedly French, definitely a native.

“Yeah, this is Karim. Karim, this is Yoann. He goes to my school,” Gonzalo said.

Karim said, “I didn't know I was mysterious.”

“Lautaro asked around at school about you,” Gonzalo explained, “We go to a really small school.”

Yoann and Gonzalo talked a little bit more about school. Karim thought that he and Gonzalo could leave without Yoann, spend the day together on their own, but instead, Yoann did tag along. They went to the cinema to go see a movie. Yoann insisted on going to one of the small theaters, where they showed old movies that only old people and art students wanted to see. Karim kind of wanted to see the pirate movie that everyone on the planet had already seen, but got stuck watching a black-and-white Italian movie about some cyclist, who had sex in the countryside with villager women, who were surprisingly open to the sexual wiles of freewheeling pervert on a bicycle. Karim was so bored, his knuckles had almost made permanent dents in his cheek. Then, Yoann dragged them to a coffeehouse to drink expensive espressos.

“What'd you think of the movie?” Yoann asked, actually sounding as though he had had a thoroughly enjoyable day with friends, instead of a tortuous slog through a boring foreign film. Karim decided that Yoann wasn't purposefully boring, but unintentionally boring with a dash of pretentious.

“It was fine.”

“What was your favorite part, Karim?” Gonzalo asked; his voice moony from hanging around Yoann. Yoann was the kind of person who made people moony, lost in their attraction.  “I liked when the main guy, when he had sex on the row boat with that blonde lady. I didn't expect that part.”

Yoann started talking about getting an art degree and was contemplating learning how to play the guitar. Gonzalo talked about knowing how to play the piano, while Karim had to admit that he couldn't play any instruments.

When Yoann went to the bathroom, Gonzalo said, “I'm glad you and him are getting along. He's the only cool one at school.”

Yoann sat down at the table again. He took a deep breath, like he was preparing to say something difficult. He announced, “I just wanted you guys to know.”

“Know what?” Gonzalo asked, thoroughly entranced.

“I'm gay.”

Karim suddenly disliked everything about Yoann. Everything. His fucking handsome face. His Artist-with-a-capital-A pretentions. Karim wasn't dumb. If anything was his area of expertise, this was it: emotional manipulation by a closeted shithead, who was going to ruin everything.

Karim refused to leave, ignoring Yoann's implied requests for private audience with Gonzalo. He tagged along with them to a record store in the Latin Quarter, where Yoann insisted everyone in Paris looked for vinyl records. Gonzalo was too lost in Yoann's eyelashes to think clearly. Karim knew that feeling, so he didn't feel angry about it. He just understood. Yoann was the kind of person that Gonzalo deserved: smart, educated, going somewhere, cultured. Other than the closeted thing, which was actually pure conjecture.

“What do you usually do, Karim?” Olivier asked, picking through the racks of records; Gonzalo was doing the same. Karim just stood to the side, waiting for it all to be over. To go to Debuchy's apartment and stare at the ceiling instead of sleep, in fear that Gonzalo liked that hipster asshole, Yoann, more than him.

“For work?”

“Yeah, sure. I was wondering what you did, like hobbies, but where do you work?”

“Burger King. I have the night shift,” Karim replied. He stole Petit Mathieu's job.

The door to the store opened, ringing a bell. Yoann looked up, like he was expecting to see someone he knew. Gonzalo didn't notice this at all, consumed in the cover art of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.

“Karim, I think half of these people were buried in our cemetery. Look at this.”

Their cemetery. Perhaps Karim still had a chance. If they were sharing municipal cemeteries in the figurative sense, it was very possible they still shared other things, like mutual sexual attraction.

“George looks like Napoleon,” Gonzalo said. Karim approached Gonzalo to look over his shoulder. Karim didn't know which one was George definitively, but Gonzalo pointed to a man in a shiny red military uniform, a tricornered hat, and a hippie mustache.

“If Napoleon did acid.”

Yoann cleared his throat, having evidently not seen the person he wanted to. Hopefully, he had an all-consuming crush on some older college student, leaving Gonzalo to Karim. He asked, “Have either of tried acid before? One of my friends, he's in university, he's told me about it.”

Yoann's university friend, who probably told him about the record store. Karim decided he hated him too, though the university friend had yet to make an appearance in Karim's life. If Karim had to come up with a list of things he never felt like doing, tripping with a guy he liked and a romantic competitor ranked highly on that list. He didn't volunteer for anything, nodding as though it was a lovely statement, but not a serious suggestion. Instead, Yoann assumed, “Do you know anyone who could get us any, Karim?”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“I was just asking a question,” Yoann replied, seriously taken aback.

“Why'd you ask me that question and not Gonzalo?” Karim demanded, “Why'd you think I could find you drugs and not Gonzalo?”

“Because...”

“We don't know each other, okay? You don't know me. I don't know you,” Karim decided it was an appropriate time to go back to Debuchy's. He wasn't wanted by Yoann, unless he was procuring illegal substances, and possibly Gonzalo, for cockblocking reasons. He was annoyed. Karim pushed the record store door shut, as he stormed out, hoping the bell would clang as loud as possible when he left. That would sure show Yoann, wouldn't it? Instead, the door was stopped by a soft oof, a small tinkle of the bell, and a loud “ow!”

Karim turned around and saw Gonzalo coming after him. It was a small victory. At least it was something.

“I'm not going to apologize for something I didn't do, but he shouldn't've asked you that.”

Gonzalo walked with Karim. They crossed over the Seine and stood close to one another without actually touching.

“Can you tell me some stuff? Because I don't really know anything about you and I want to know,” Gonzalo said.

“What do you want to know?” Karim asked. Gonzalo smiled widely.

“Where are you from?”

“Lyon.”

“Where are you living now?”

“A banlieu northeast of Paris,” Karim replied, “I have a question. Why do you even want to be my friend. Why are you so nice?”

“Because I just like you.”

“But even after I stole your wallet? Even after that? Why?”

Gonzalo touched Karim's hand, “We just kept meeting up. I saw you on the bus and in the library. I thought it was like a fate kind of thing. I listen to supernatural messages.”

“I could have been a murderer or something. I could have murdered you a lot of different times.”

“And you haven't murdered me.”

“But I could be buttering you up. I could kill you.”

“I don't think you're the kind. Would a murderer talk to my parents about Napoleon for no good reason?”

“Maybe.”

Gonzalo kissed him, foreheads touching.

“You're too nice,” Karim whispered, “Too nice to be with me.”

“No, I'm not.”

“I'm really nothing but trouble.”

Gonzalo cupped Karim's jaw, his palm rubbed against sparse, teenaged facial hair, “So?”

Karim wrapped his arms around Gonzalo's waste and leaned back against the bridge's balustrade, “I'm really glad you're confusing coincidence for destiny.”

Karim decided that he was going to Zizou's cafe, to hang out with him until they would go to Zizou's apartment. He felt good. Really good.

While he was on the bus, an unfortunately familiar person sat down next to Karim. Titi was a handsome guy, sophisticated and smart-seeming.

“Long time, huh, Karim?”

“I guess,” Karim replied. Tension spread throughout his shoulders and neck, pulling his arms closer to his body.

“What've you and Olivier been doing?”

“Nothing.”

“So, you two need me yet?”

“No.”

Titi smirked, reaching out to rub Karim's head, “You will need me, though. You'll need me back.”

“So you can fuck us over again?”

Titi actually laughed, “You've gotten a nerve since I've left. I know we'll be back in business together pretty soon. Let Olivier know I'm back in town.”

Karim got off the bus at the next stop, if only to end his conversation with Titi. It was probably time to head to Marseille or Nice or literally anywhere else on the planet. There were a few problems with that plan, such as convincing Olivier to go with him, tearing Olivier away from Debuchy, and leaving Gonzalo. Gonzalo, unlike Debuchy, wasn't really aware of what actually was going on.

Gonzalo was nice and normal and didn't deserve the trouble that Karim wasn't unused to.

Karim sat down across from Zizou in the usual cafe in the usual booth. He looked up from his laptop, “I haven't seen you in a while. Busy?”

“Yeah.”

“Been hanging around with Titi yet?”

“Nope.”

“Talk to me while I finish these few pages, okay? Tell me what you're thinking.”

“You don't want me to let you do what you need to do?”

“It's good to hear how you talk. It helps my process,” Zizou replied. His fingers clicked on the keyboard loudly. He had an old laptop that had loud keys that stuck sometimes.

Zizou was probably the smartest person that Karim knew, so he asked, “Why don't you think Napoleon's family visited him on St. Helena? He gave them all countries and stuff, but they couldn't be bothered to go see him.”

Zizou snorted, “He didn't just give them money. He gave them burdens.”

“Burdens?”

“Being given a country is very strange practice, I'm sure you know. But not everyone is a Napoleon who can run a country without much stress. He could run France in his sleep.”

“But you get all that money and all that security.”

“Louis, the Bonaparte who ran Holland, went crazy. Joseph, the one who ran Spain, got run out of that country and out of France. Napoleon imprisoned Lucien, one of his older brothers, so there were hard feelings there. Napoleon made Jérôme divorce his first wife. I don't think even Napoleon expected they'd visit him,” Zizou said, “Napoleon, although tragic and romantic, was a person who easily cut people out of his life.”

Karim went back to Zizou's apartment. Afterwards, they watched television and shared a cigarette, leaning out the window, so the smoke alarm wouldn't go off.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Karim had fallen asleep in Petit Mathieu's bed, since Petit Mathieu had run into him on the stairs, on his way to work, wearing his gray Burger King shirt. Karim had been coming back from a long night. The Sun was rising and Petit Mathieu had the breakfast shift.

“Karim. Wake up!” Olivier's sharp voice interrupted a pleasant sleep. The bed was warm and the mattress perfectly firm. It was just so comfortable. To wake up seemed such a shame.

“Why?”

“Because we have to get out of here.”

“Where are we going?” Karim sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“I don't know. Get your shit together.”

Karim pulled his sneakers on and grabbed his backpack. He shouted to Olivier who was waiting in the living room, “Are we coming back?”

“Fuck no. Hurry up.”

Karim left twenty Euros under Petit Mathieu's pillow before leaving with Olivier; it didn't really make up for their intrusions into Petit Mathieu's life, but presumably it was better than nothing. Olivier walked briskly, almost at a slow jog, like the Mathieus' apartment was just morally uninhabitable.

“Where are we going?”

“I don't know. Where do you go all the time during the day?”

“We can't go there.”

“Why not? You spending time with a real perv?” Olivier demanded.

“We just can't. Let's go meet up with Zizou.”

Olivier whined, “But you're the only one he likes. Why can't we just hang out at your boyfriend's place?”

Karim didn't want to say why. That he was embarrassed by all of this. That he hadn't even told Gonzalo how he made money or anything about Olivier. And that Gonzalo still lived with his parents, was an attentive student, and hadn't made a habit of cutting classes.

“Why'd we have to leave?”

“Because Mathieu Debuchy is a piece of shit liar.”

And so they kept walking. Olivier and Karim agreed to hang out with Ziziou for the day. Karim's main focus was on getting rid of Olivier, so he could meet up with Gonzalo by 4PM. Mr. and Mrs. Higuaín were going to Lille for an away match, so Karim was invited for the night.

Karim had pretty much made up his mind to leave Paris, since Titi showed up again. And now that they were homeless because of whatever argument that Debuchy and Olivier got themselves into, it was just a matter of waiting for Olivier to think of the idea, too. Karim wanted to spend as much time with Gonzalo as possible, to soak in his being, his self. There probably weren't going to be nice, naïve, rich kids from Argentina who developed on crushes on the losers who mugged them. Karim had enough money for a train ticket and could afford to miss out one night.

“You're both here?” Zizou looked up from his laptop, genuinely surprised.

“We're couchsurfing right now,” Olivier said.

Zizou and Olivier talked for a bit, while Karim stared at the clock over the cash register counter, watching time stand perfectly still. They went to Zizou's apartment to watch TV, but Karim tried to come up with a reason to leave without Olivier tagging along.

“I got to go.”

“Yeah? Where you going?” Olivier asked, looking away from the episode of _Friends_ where Phoebe sang a song about a cat.

“Got a job,” he replied.

“Let me come.”

“You can't,” Karim said, “He's really shy.”

Olivier grinned, baring his teeth, “If anyone can make anyone not shy, it's me.”

"Not him."

Karim left and met Gonzalo at the library. It was nice out and the weather held up, so Gonzalo was sitting on the steps outside, reading from a text book. Karim sat down next to him before Gonzalo even noticed he was there.

“Bonjour Karim,” Gonzalo smiled and it was like heaven.

“What do you want to do today? Another museum or something?”

“Nah, it's too nice out for that.”

Karim and Gonzalo hung around in the park nearby and spent most of that time making out furiously near a bush, hoping to avoid nasty glances from people walking nearby with families. Karim almost started grabbing at Gonzalo's sweater and undoing his fly, but stopped himself. It was a step that clients would have wanted things to progress to, but it was possible that Gonzalo wasn't up for that step to take place in a public park.

“They're even taking Lautaro,” Gonzalo reported, when they took a break. Karim leaned against a tree, while Gonzalo leaned against him. Karim's arm was slung over Gonzalo's shoulder, casually, as though it had always been this way.

“They wanted it to be a family trip, but I convinced them I had a lot of homework this weekend,” Gonzalo said, “I've got two older brothers, but they're in university in Argentina. We're going to see them during the summer.”

“What about me? What am I going to do during the Summer?”

“You? This Summer's going to be awful for me too!” Karim could hear the teasing tug of Gonzalo's smile in his voice, “At least, you'll have all of those Napoleon landmarks to go see. Maybe you can see the place where he and his brothers ate dinner on a random Sunday. There's no good Napoleon places in Argentina.”

Maybe Karim could hang around until Summer and disappear into a new city in a different part of France. Gonzalo would probably not even notice he was gone.

“Karim!” Debuchy and Petit Mathieu were walking through the park, it appeared. Petit Mathieu had his gray Burger King shirt draped around his shirt, wearing a white undershirt. Debuchy was holding a Burger King bag, presumably a freebie from Petit Mathieu's morning shift.

“Do you know where Olivier is?” Debuchy demanded. It was strange not seeing Debuchy attached to Olivier by some appendage, like he was a conjoined twin recently removed.

Karim shrugged, “He's with Zizou, I think.”

“Zizou's your friend, though,” Debuchy snapped, “You tell him to come back next time you see him, okay?”

“He said you're a piece of shit liar.”

“Well, he's a delusional lunatic,” Debuchy replied nastily, before stomping off, evidently with no opinion on Gonzalo.

Petit Mathieu glanced at Debuchy before telling Karim, “Mathieu thinks that Olivier is getting back with Titi.”

“Why would Olivier do that?”

Petit Mathieu shrugged, “Been smoking too much. He's all paranoid.”

“See you around,” Petit Mathieu jogged after Debuchy, who had disappeared around a bend behind a shrub.

“Who were they?” Gonzalo asked, “You didn't introduce us.”

“The two Mathieus. I lived with them.”

With Gonzalo, Paris was actually the place that was in movies, books, and people’s imaginations. It wasn’t the city of love, perhaps no more than any other city on the planet, but it was still a lovely city. Gonzalo lived in the nice parts and Karim lived in the bad parts, so it was all equal in a way: their relationship was a balance.

Karim had first stolen Gonzalo’s wallet in January and now, it was April.  One month until Gonzalo’s schoolyear was over. The summer could have been hours spent staring at each other. If Karim was a normal person, with a normal life, they could have spent every night just listening to each other breathe into the phone receiver, while one parent complained that the bill was going to go through the roof and another complained that they were waiting for an important call from work. They could have planned a trip to Versailles or to Toulon or wherever. They could have done a lot of things. Then, school would start again, diminishing their time together again, but it would still be okay.

But Karim wasn’t a normal person with a normal life and Gonzalo was going back to Argentina for the Summer. Instead, Karim was probably going to leave Paris and they would never see each other again.

Karim was fine with not seeing some people ever again. Zizou, Titi, the Mathieus. Although he had spent not insignificant portions of his life with them, it wouldn’t feel bad to never see them again. In fact, in Titi’s case, it would be beneficial to never see him again. Olivier was probably going to agree that they needed to get out of the city, especially now that Debuchy and he broke up and Titi was out of jail.

However, if Debuchy was right and Olivier was lot dumber than Karim had originally assumed, staying in Paris was a lot more likely. Other than Lyon, Karim hadn’t lived anywhere else, so finding housing elsewhere was unlikely. Maybe Petit Mathieu would let him stay in their apartment.

Gonzalo had replaced Olivier in Karim's head. It felt disloyal, since Karim and Olivier had been a team for a long, long time, but when Olivier was with Debuchy, they didn't see each other all that much. Karim didn't mind Debuchy on his own, all that much; in fact, when there were no romantic attachments within their group of friends, Debuchy was fine. They all smoked together, waiting around for something better to come along. For Debuchy, that something better must have been Olivier. Karim had hoped something better would be Olivier, but instead, he got Gonzalo, which was far from a bad trade off.  
Gonzalo and Karim went back to the Higuaíns' house. The housekeeper was there, presumably to keep an eye on them, so they watched TV and then pretended to do homework. Instead, Gonzalo pinched Karim on the thigh and Karim couldn't stop smiling.

She left at seven o'clock.

They sat on Gonzalo's bed, cross-legged, facing one another. Karim couldn't keep too many secrets from Gonzalo at once, so he confessed, “I think I'm going to be leaving Paris soon.”

“Why?”

“I just got to go.”

“Where are you going?”  
“I don't know. Probably somewhere south,” Karim replied, “Olivier hasn't decided where he wants to go.”

“Why don't you just stay? I'll only be gone for the summer,” Gonzalo said, “If you can stay in Paris for June and July, we'll be back in August.”

“We don't have a place to stay, 'cause him and one of the Mathieus got into a fight.”

“Just stay here. I'll give you my key and you can hide out here, until we come back,” Gonzalo grabbed his hand, an evertightening grip, “Please don't leave.”

Karim changed his mind, a moldable decision in a long line of easily changed declarations, “I'll stay. I promise, I'll be here when you get back.”

Gonzalo was a slowly discovered treasure. It was slow, inefficient, and felt right. Nothing resembled work. There was no expectation, no undeserved access. Just normal feelings. Afterwards, they slept in the bed together, with Gonzalo specifically setting the alarm for early on Saturday morning, so they could get out of the house before the housekeeper came back. Even though they were sticky with sweat, covered only in a light sheet with the window open to the humid night, Karim didn't want to not touch Gonzalo. Their ankles were hooked, Karim touched his back. He was a magnet and Karim was powerless against attraction.

The next morning, inspired by the fact that Gonzalo was leaving in less than a month for Argentina, they went to do Parisian tourist stuff. Even more touristy than the Louvre and Pére Lachaise Cemetery. Eating croissants for breakfast with coffee. Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe and eating macarons along the Champs-Élysées. In the afternoon, they were supposed to go to Notre-Dame.

“When I come back, I'll bring alfajores. They're kind of like macarons,” Gonzalo said, holding a half-eaten orange macaron, “But better. Not as many flavors though.”

“What are you going to do when you go back to Argentina?” Karim asked, apparently a sucker for emotional torture.

Gonzalo shrugged, “Hopefully, I'll see my friends from my old school.”

“Like Ezequiel?” Karim still remembered how Gonzalo smiled at his memory all those months ago.

“Maybe,” Gonzalo said, “But Leo said he's got a new girlfriend, so I don't know if he'll have time. You know, I had a crush on him for the longest time, but I always knew he didn't like me back like that. He probably couldn't.”

Karim left Gonzalo after dinner. He had to go find Olivier and figure out their next plan, but it was always hard to leave Gonzalo.

Karim went to Zizou's apartment, but Olivier wasn't there. Karim called Debuchy's cell phone from a payphone, to see if he knew where Olivier was, but Debuchy didn't answer. He went to Debuchy's apartment, but neither of the Mathieus had seen Olivier since the argument. Rather than leaving, Karim smoked pot with Petit Mathieu, while Debuchy went to go meet his supplier, some high school student from the next banlieu over.

“Do you think Olivier would go back to Titi?” Karim asked.

Petit Mathieu shrugged and handed Karim a bag of potato chips. It became just the three of them, without Olivier.

 


	8. Chapter 8

PSG had one last away game in Toulouse. In the morning, before Mr. and Mrs. Higuaín came home, Karim and Gonzalo laid in Gonzalo's tiny, narrow bed. They didn't have sex the night before, since Lautaro was home. Instead, they just laid next to each other all night long. It didn't matter. Karim just felt so fucking good, laying there. Nothing else mattered, beyond Gonzalo. It didn't matter what Titi was doing. Who even cared anymore? It just didn't matter and Karim decided that he wasn't leaving Paris. He couldn't. Not while the person who made him felt that good was still there.

Gonzalo left Paris on an unremarkable Tuesday morning. They met up on Monday night to say good bye. Even though Karim feared it was going to be a final farewell, it didn't feel like one. It just felt like a normal night. They kissed and Gonzalo gave Karim his house key. Karim doubted he'd use it, since he was still staying with the Mathieus.

Karim clenched a loose part of the bottom of Gonzalo's t-shirt before they parted ways. He didn't want to let go.

“I'll be back. This is just Elba,” Gonzalo whispered. Elba was the island where Napoleon was exiled to before he escaped and returned to France. Karim laughed into Gonzalo's neck, shutting his eyes, wishing everything would change around them.

Petit Mathieu got Karim a job at the Burger King, so the pair of them had to work at all sorts of terrible hours for awful pay. Petit Mathieu, at a grand age of nineteen, was the shift manager, since he was the oldest and even got a minuscule raise for recruiting Karim.

After work, Karim would usually go back with Petit Mathieu to the apartment, eat Burger King hamburgers and smoke pot. It was a boring, but normal existence. He paid some of the rent. They watched TV and sometimes, Karim would get books about Napoleon from the library with Petit Mathieu's library card. Maybe he'd become the kind of person that could have a future with Gonzalo. Even if it didn't extend past the next Christmas or whatever, it'd be good enough.

“It's fucking awful to say,” Debuchy said, one morning while they watched cartoons after Karim got back from work, “But you're a lot less annoying now that Olivier's not here anymore.”

The rumor, according to Debuchy, was that Olivier was staying at Titi's place. Two weeks after Gonzalo left, Karim decided that he needed a picture of Gonzalo. Karim waited until around 10PM to go to the Higuaíns house, after the housekeeper left. He was high and had nothing to do, nowhere to go.

It was creepy quiet in the house, still, clean and antiseptic. He left the lights off and crept along in the hallway, as though he was actually breaking in, with no permission. The street lights from outside illuminated the hall just enough to not walk into anything. Every step he took creaked on floorboards. Karim went directly to Gonzalo's room and looked at the photographs taped to the wall above his desk. He could barely make out the faces and Karim couldn't remember which one most prominently featured Gonzalo's face, so he peeled two of them off the wall, shoving them into his back pants pocket. He took a book off of the nightstand and tucked it under his arm. He went into the kitchen, hoping to find something in the fridge, but it was empty, smelling of cleaner. He took a box of cereal from a cabinet and left, locking the front door behind him.

The book was in Spanish, with the words “El alquimista” written across the cover in gold embossed letters. The inside cover had an address in Argentina written in pencil. The cereal was Frosted Flakes. The two pictures were useless. One had half of Gonzalo's face, mostly cut off in favor of his other friends, Kun and Leo, making faces. The other was a landscape shot of a seashore, with pale sand and a blue ocean like the sky.

Every once in a while, he'd stare at the photo with Kun and Leo, focusing on Gonzalo's left eye, left eyebrow, part of his forehead and hair. He wondered what that eye, eyebrow, forehead, and hair were doing in Buenos Aires. Probably hanging out with his old friends, just doing normal stuff.

He went back to the house once more, though early in the morning, after the night shift, going in at six o'clock. It was easier to navigate in the early morning daylight. Karim didn't go into Gonzalo's bedroom and instead, went into the Higuaíns' bedroom. He took all of their toothpaste from the linen closet in the master bathroom, since the Mathieus forgot to buy some last time they were at the grocery store. And then, Karim took Gonzalo's school photo, which had been hanging in the hallway. He wrestled it out of the frame and replaced the frame on the wall, which still had the sample photo of a just-married happy couple, beaming from flimsy glossy paper behind the picture frame's glass. Karim locked the door and went back to the Mathieus' apartment.

Karim was doing normal stuff, too. Boring stuff, but normal, finally. He waited for the bus to go home from work. The Mathieus' apartment was actually becoming home in earnest. The bus came as usual; Karim paid his fare. It was all so typical. He stood, holding a pole, staring out the window without his eyes focusing on anything.

Titi and Olivier got on the bus, two stops later. You couldn't miss them, as they were probably the most handsome men on the bus. Olivier was thinner and his face was puffier than when Karim had last seen him. Karim, similarly, had more acne from standing near a fryer for hours on end.

“Karim!” Olivier tugged at Karim's gray Burger King-issued uniform shirt, “Look at you. Got a spiffy uniform, huh?”

Like Karim was in the army, back on leave or something. Karim didn't know what to do. They had been a team, once upon a team. They had stuck together. They had survived Titi once before. But that was together. And there they were, on opposite sides of the World, even though they stood right next to each other.

“Like what you see?” Titi smirked, putting his arm around Olivier's shoulder, “He's out of your price range.”

The bus lurched to a start, but Karim stood firmly, not realizing what he was actually saying, like a monster lived in his mouth, “Olivier, you want to come and see the Mathieus?”

“I said, he's out of your price range, Benzema,” Titi shoved Karim's shoulder.

“I wasn't talking to you,” Karim replied, continuing, “Mathieu Debuchy wants to apologize to you, Olivier.”

Debuchy had said nothing of the kind, but being in the Mathieus' apartment was probably better than getting fucked up on real drugs, strung out, and not even getting all of the money Olivier deserved. Karim was even willing to take Olivier to the Higuaíns' house; they could have hid out in the garage until Titi got arrested again.

“You better be talking to me. You better not be trying to fuck me over again, Benzema.”

“I'm talking to my friend. Mind your own business.”

Karim held out his hand to Olivier, who looked away.

“You better not talk to me that way. Know your place, 'cause everyone knows what you are,” Titi leaned in close, “And you are worthless.”

Karim's brain short-circuited. He could almost imagine feeling the zap of confusion, of anger in his head. Karim launched himself at Titi, swinging his fists, not even sure what he was hitting. Titi stumbled backwards into a bench seat, carrying several middle-aged women. People were screaming. Olivier tried to pull Karim away, grabbing him by the shirt, but he dove back into the fight. He imagined hearing Gonzalo telling him to stop, but this felt important, necessary and well-deserved.

After the bus driver pulled over the bus and three men pried Karim off of Titi, who had a split lip with no other visible damage. The bus driver made Karim lay face-down on the sidewalk and had a passenger sit on him, waiting for the police to take him away. It was all on the bus surveillance camera, so it wasn't like Karim had any chance of getting away with it.

Karim's hand ached, but he didn't really feel bad about that. He felt bad about Titi falling on the women, but that was about it. He felt bad that Olivier left the scene of the incident with Titi, but there wasn't much he could do about that anymore.

The police took him to a juvenile detention facility and after his night in kid jail, Karim had to go to social services, who assigned him to a foster home in Lyon. They didn't even let him get his stuff from the Mathieus' apartment. Back to the middle of nowhere, relative to Paris. In actuality, Lyon was far from nowhere. It was a pretty big city. Lots of important stuff happened there.

However, the Mathieus weren't there. Olivier wasn't there. Zizou wasn't there. Most importantly, Gonzalo wasn't there.

His newest foster parents weren't bad. They didn't know what he used to do and how he used to live, so it was easy to keep it that way. His new school wasn't bad. They made him stay in a grade with teenagers who were two years younger than Karim was himself, since he hadn't regularly attended school in two and a half years. Since it was very clear that he didn't have much of a chance to attend university, they assigned him to metalwork.

Karim had left all of his money in the Mathieus' apartment. His borrowed books. His key to the Higuaíns' house. The pictures Karim had lifted from Gonzalo's house. The cereal and the toothpaste were either eaten or in the process of being used when he had to leave. Returning to Paris before he turned eighteen seemed unlikely, since these foster parents would check his homework every night and actually cared if he was back in their house before 10PM and 11:30PM on weekends.

No one knew who he was and no one seemed to even suspect what Karim had done or been.

Gonzalo's face started to fade from Karim's memory. He remembered his accent sometimes, if he heard people speaking Spanish. Karim remembered how good he felt with Gonzalo. How comfortable, safe, good it all felt. 

Sometimes he worried that no one would remember him in Paris. That no one cared he was gone. Had he been so weightless that no one would care he had disappeared from their view?

Karim laid on a bench in the schoolyard, looking up at the clouds drift by. Ultimately, despite everything, there were worse places to be. His Elba.

 


	9. Chapter 9

When Gonzalo was seventeen and a half, he was going to school in Valencia, since his dad had a new job there, after he got fired from the PSG job. During Christmas, the Higuaíns were all reunited in Buenos Aires. A package with French postage laid on the front step of their house. It just had their address with no specific recipient listed. Gonzalo assumed that meant it was free game for who could open it.

Inside was an old, beat up copy of _El alquimista_ that had three pictures tucked into it, like bookmarks, with no note included. Two of the pictures had been taken from Gonzalo’s room from when they lived in Paris. One was of the beach and the other was from the Spring Day that he spent with Kun, Leo, and Ezequiel before his dad took the Paris job. The third was his school picture from when he was fifteen or sixteen.

The school picture had been in a frame on the wall in the hallway of the Paris house. They hadn't noticed that the picture was missing for nearly a month. They found out a whole case of toothpaste was missing when they returned from summer break, but his mother had assumed the housekeeper had taken it. One day, when his father returned from a particularly stressful day at work, he shouted, “Who the hell are those people?”

Gonzalo's father had been referring to the people who were in the sample photo that had come with the picture frame. Gonzalo, himself, was pretty sure that Karim had taken that stuff, but he wasn't going to admit that he had helped someone commit petty theft. And at the time, he was pretty sure he was going to see Karim again and get their stuff back. Maybe not the toothpaste, but the photos, at least.

Instead, Gonzalo didn't see Karim at all. He just disappeared into thin air. And a year later, Gonzalo got the pictures back in a mysterious package.

When he was twenty, Gonzalo decided to go to Paris to study abroad for a year. He got assigned to the international student housing, with all of the other abroad students. The housing office assigned Gonzalo to live with three Spanish students: Álvaro Arbeloa, Raúl Albiol, and José Callejón. They seemed to know each other already, but they were nice enough and often asked him to go with them to dinner or trips around the city. Gonzalo usually turned them down; he had a secret agenda.

The package that had been sent to Buenos Aires had a return address that Gonzalo wrote over and over again on schoolbook covers. He fantasized about Karim answering the door, about embracing him for so long. He wasn't even sure why he needed to find Karim, beyond the curiosity. They knew each other for five months. They did normal teenager shit. They were weirdly obsessed with Napoleon. Karim just was emblematic of Paris when Gonzalo was sixteen.

Gonzalo went to the address from the package about a week after classes started. Even though he wanted to find Karim, he wanted to make sure it fit in with his education, too. Even though he didn't know who sent the package, he knew it was important; he imagined their tearful reunion.

Instead, a handsome guy, not much older than Gonzalo himself, answered. Gonzalo didn't have any recourse, only prepared for Karim, so he said dumbly, “I'm looking for Karim Benzema.”

The guy smiled tiredly, “Aren't we all?”

“So, have you seen him?”

“Not for a couple years,” the guy reached out to flatten a curling piece of wallpaper. Once he moved his hand, the wallpaper curled up again, “How'd you find the apartment?”

“I got a package from here a few years ago.”

“Must have been Valbuena,” the guy said, “He doesn't live here anymore; he went home.”

“And you don't know where Karim went?”

The guy shrugged, “He might have wanted it that way. You can ask Zizou. Maybe he knows.”

The guy told him where to find Zizou. As Gonzalo walked away, the guy shouted, “If you find him, tell him Olivier says 'hi.'”

Gonzalo's roommates were different in tone. Álvaro, José, and Raúl already had several parties, having been in Paris for the same amount of time as Gonzalo, who felt like he barely had enough time to finish his homework. When Gonzalo returned from the package address, Raúl greeted him by forcing a beer bottle into his hand. It was a Wednesday, so they didn't have people over, but they did want to drink, evidently. Gonzalo sat with them, listening to Álvaro lecture Raúl on the finer points of  _300,_ which had only come out a few months before. Álvaro was a graduate student, studying ancient history.

“Let's play 'never have I ever!'” José suggested, “You guys are boring.”

Raúl and Álvaro agreed, so Gonzalo agreed too.

“I'll start! Never have I ever been to Paris before.”

Gonzalo was the only one to drink.

“The one from South America is the only one to be here before. Fuck, we're untraveled.”

“Speak for yourself, Albiol. I've used up my trips going to Greece.”

Raúl went next, “Never have I ever...been to South America.”

Raúl smiled broadly as Gonzalo sighed a tiny “fuck” and again was the only one to drink. Raúl was kind of goofy-looking, in a pleasant way, so it didn't seem like he had a mean bone in his awkward puppy dog body.

Gonzalo said, “Never have I ever...”

His job with Valencia ruled out using “lived in Spain” as his move. He settled on, “Never have I ever gone to the Bernabéu.”

José and Álvaro groaned loudly. They had a Real Madrid poster hanging in the common room, courtesy of them. Raúl had a Valencia scarf hanging from his bedpost and high-fived Gonzalo.

Sometimes, Gonzalo studied with Álvaro, Raúl, and José at the university library. Gonzalo felt bad for not looking for Karim harder, sometimes. He had classes on Thursday and Friday, so he went to Zizou's café, where the guy at the package address instructed him to go. Zizou was a middle-aged guy with a shaved head, who sat in the corner booth with a busted up laptop. Zizou looked up, narrowing his eyes suspiciously, “Do I know you?”

“I'm looking for Karim Benzema.”

Zizou appeared to think for a minute, before saying, “You a cop? Just so you know, he told me he was eighteen.”

“What? I'm not a cop. I'm just looking for him.”

“I don't know. Ask Olivier Giroud. I don't know where he is, but he'd know.”

“I talked to Olivier. He said to talk to you.”

“I don't know. I don't even know the last time I saw Karim. It was like five years ago or whatever. Maybe Titi knows? I don't know if Titi's in jail. Olivier will know where Titi is,” Zizou replied, growing more and more annoyed, “Why are you looking for him?”

“Because he's my friend.”

“You're his friend and you're asking  _me_ where he is? Call him up yourself.”

“I'm just looking for him. I haven't seen him in a while and it's really important that I find him.”

“I just don't get why Olivier told you to talk to me.”

“Why?”

“Because the only thing I knew about Karim was that he was a hooker. That's it,” Zizou rubbed his eyes.

Gonzalo didn't know how he had gotten back to the dormitory. He was in a trance, mulling over what Zizou could have possibly meant. Was there a different definition in French than in Spanish? When he got back to the dormitory, Álvaro was the only one there, doing research for a project, while Raúl and José went out to a museum or something. Gonzalo grunted a greeting to Álvaro and went to check his French-to-Spanish dictionary. Sure enough, all synonyms pointed to prostitute.

He had invited a hooker to dinner with his parents. He allowed a hooker to have free access to his parents' home. And all before Gonzalo was old and desperate for companionship. Instead, he was a sixteen year old kid, who had been desperate for companionship. Well, he was never going to be able to tell his parents the truth. If Lautaro found out, Gonzalo would never hear the end of it. He'd have to cut ties with his family.

Álvaro and Gonzalo went to go meet Raúl and José for dinner. While they walked to the café, “You look fairly distressed. Want to talk before we go meet up with Dumb and Dumber?”

“Which one is which?”  “If you need to ask, you haven't met them. So, is anything wrong?”

“Everything I thought I knew was upended by a pervert in a café.”

“That's a bit unhelpful. Did he expose himself to you or something? 'Cause you can call the cops over that, probably,” Álvaro said, “I don't know the laws here. They're much freer here, sexually, so maybe that's like a handshake?”

“I had sex with a prostitute.”

Álvaro raised an eyebrow, “Oh. You know, you're a good looking guy. You don't need to pay for it, I'm sure.”

“When I was sixteen, I had sex with a prostitute. I didn't know it at the time. I just found out a few hours ago.”

“You're distressed over that?”

“A little bit. I thought I loved him.”

“But you didn't know. So he didn't make you pay?”

“No.”

“So, you could still have loved him. Hookers have to have off time, too.”

“You think so?”  “I can tell you, as a world weary twenty-four year old graduate student, I know the lifestyles of presumably poor, teenaged prostitutes very well,” Álvaro patted Gonzalo on the back.

A week later, Álvaro and Gonzalo went back to the package address to find Olivier. A different guy answered the door. He was a little shorter than both Gonzalo and Álvaro. He smelled like pot.

“How much did you want?”

“Want of what?” Álvaro asked.

“We're looking for Olivier.”

“In regards to?”

“In regards to Karim Benzema.”

“He doesn't live here anymore.”

“Yeah, that's why we need to talk to Olivier.”

“Olivier!” the guy shouted into the apartment, “Come here!”

Olivier, still handsome, approached the doorway, asked, “Did Zizou send you back here? He's still useless, huh?”

The other guy was protective of Olivier, touching him on the arm, making sure Olivier was still there, still okay.

“He said that you would know where Titi is.”

The other guy pushed Gonzalo's shoulder, “Fuck off. Go home and don't bother us.”

He shut the door. And there, with the shut door, the search was over. No one had seen Karim in three years. Even if they could remember the last place where he was, there was no chance he'd have stayed in the exact same place for years, waiting to be discovered.

Gonzalo was ready to turn around and leave, but Álvaro knocked on the door again. Olivier answered, annoyed “I don't know where Titi went.”

He came out of the apartment, shutting the door behind him. He leaned against the wall, tapping his fingers against his crossed arm, expectantly.

“Why didn't you tell me last time I was here?”

“About Titi? Because I don't know where he is.”

“About Karim. About what he used to do.”

“You didn't know? Maybe you didn't know as well as you thought you did.”

“I know that now. But you knew?”

“Karim was my best friend. I was very well aware of how he made a living.”

“You don't know where he is now and you were best friends?”

“Operative word being ‘were.’ It’s hard to be friends with someone you haven’t seen in a few years,” Olivier grew steadily more annoyed with Gonzalo and Álvaro’s presence, ‘Why are you looking for him? You obviously didn’t know him that well.”

“I thought I did.”

“One last question,” Álvaro interrupted, “When was the last time you saw Karim?”

“He got arrested because he got into a fight,” Olivier said, “He was a good friend. Just so you knew.”

Olivier went back into the apartment without saying goodbye. Not that they deserved a goodbye, anyway.

“Linguistic majors are real pushovers, huh?” Álvaro said, “If a history student gave up as easily you did, we'd still think the Earth was flat.”

“We're not any closer,” Gonzalo said, “Olivier doesn't know where he went.”

“The police know where he went.”

Another week passed before Gonzalo and Álvaro went to the police to ask about Karim. José had joined their investigation party. Raúl was dating some girl, a French student who was in one of his classes, so he was always busy.

The police were less than receptive. The officer told them, “Mind your own business.”

“Ask him about the Aarhus Convention,” José said, having studied law, but not French, “Freedom of Information.”

The police officer said, “I don't know about Spain, but it's none of your business to be prying into other people's arrest records.”

“I'm from Argentina,” Gonzalo replied.

“Same goes for Argentina, too.”

“It's been a few years since he was arrested.”

“Still none of your business,” the officer said, “Tell you what, you have Karim Benzema give you express permission, get him here in person to tell me that, I'll let you take a look.”

As they walked out, José said, “You know, it's nice to know that they do respect the privacy of the average citizen, but it does hamper your mystery solving, huh?”

“Stops it in its tracks,” Gonzalo replied.

After Raúl broke up with his girlfriend, he suggested checking on Facebook. He explained, “It's like MySpace, but with real names.”

Álvaro was soon addicted to Facebook, but they were unsuccessful in finding Karim. José suggested a weekend trip to Lyon, where Gonzalo assumed Karim was from, which was fun, but they didn't actually find anything of note, except that during their walking tour, the guide said that Napoleon had ordered the reconstruction of Lyon, after buildings were destroyed during the Revolution. Karim would have liked that.

Weeks dragged on without leads. Gonzalo went home to Argentina for Christmas. The search had lost its urgency. It had become a game, rather than a desperate reunion. His parents didn't even suspect how he had spent a significant portion of his time in Paris.

“Have you seen any of your friends from your old school?” his mother asked on his return.

Even if Gonzalo had the stupid urge to see his old classmates, no one probably remembered him, since he had only been at their school for two years. Most of them had started kindergarten together, united in rich kid education for eternity. His intrusion into their world was just a blip, probably.

“What about Karim? You two were close.”

Karim and he had been blips in each other’s lives, though. But he felt important. Like his time in Gonzalo’s life had been longer than it actually had been.

Gonzalo didn't bring Karim up for the majority of the second semester. He just wanted to have fun before he left Paris permanently. Álvaro, Raúl, and José made jokes about looking for him, like Karim was just a figment of their collective imagination. A character from a pulp mystery.

But he wasn't. Karim, for whatever he was, was Gonzalo's only real friend in Paris, the first time around. And considering Karim had stolen his wallet upon their first meeting, that was certainly saying something about Paris.

One day, in the second semester, when he didn’t have much to do, when he was desperate to not be bored, Gonzalo went to the library near where he used to go to school, where he used to meet Karim. He was reliving old experiences. Gonzalo went to go check their biographies on Napoleon, a habit that he used to have. Napoleon wasn’t in the same place that he used to be, since the librarians must have bought new books, thrown away old ones. This meant that books were all moved around and that Chevalier, Maurice was in the old Bonaparte, Napoleon spot. Due to the spots being all shifted, there was an extra space that had previously been covered with books on the shelf. Written on the thickly coated, gray painted metal bookshelf in black ballpoint ink was “Karim Benzema” in scratchy letters. It was on the second to bottom shelf, so someone bored, sitting, and leaning against the bookshelf could have easily written it without a librarian or a shelver noticing at all. It was crowded by other signatures and long-forgotten notes, but you could still clearly make out the “Benze” part of his surname.

Gonzalo ran his fingers over the letters. Karim Benzema was real and had left an unexpectedly permanent imprint on the city.

In May, after classes were over, Álvaro and Raúl decided that they all needed to have one final hurrah, but most of the big name resort islands and coasts were booked up. So they had to go to Elba, which Álvaro claimed would be solely populated by German tourists.

“You have a problem with the Germans?” José asked.

“I just don't think we can trust them, considering the impending Euros,” Álvaro replied.

“It's okay. Considering the last World Cup, the Germans are dead to me,” Gonzalo said. He bought a guide book in the ferry terminal. Not since he was a kid, could he resist the sweet temptation of a good guide book.

Alvaro took pictures from their hostel to post on Facebook, so his girlfriend would get jealous.   The agenda largely consisted of “beach.” And Jesus, was the beach beautiful. As much as he would enjoy that endeavor, Gonzalo knew that he had to at least go to the Napoleon house, at least for a little bit. He owed his sixteen year old self that much.

“Don’t you want to see where one of the most powerful men in Europe lived?” Gonzalo asked.

“I’m only here because Alvaro’s a procrastinator,” Jose said, pushing his sunglasses up his nose.

Raul explained, “I only go to museums when my mom makes me.”

“Come on, Alvaro, you’re a historian. This is your job.”

“A. I study ancient Greece. B. It’s supposed to rain tomorrow. We have to get some valuable Sun while it lasts. C. You’re the worst to go to museums with. If I wanted to know what your brochure said about Versailles, I would have gotten my own brochure.”

Raúl took a long look out the hostel’s window, before he shut the shades, so they could leave for the day, “I will say, the Italians sure know how to pick their prison islands.”

“We’ll see you later tonight, right?” Alvaro asked, swinging his towel over his shoulder, following the others. Gonzalo nodded, waving as his friends walked away without him.

So Gonzalo went by himself. Tours were offered in Italian, French, English and German. Nothing in Spanish. The lady behind the counter said in halting English, “We only have the French tour because of our summer intern.”

She handed him an English language brochure. Gonzalo decided against waiting for the French tour, since it was twenty minutes away, and went straight into the villa. The floors groaned under the weight of tourists. Everything smelled old and important. It all was in a global sense, sure. But in a personal sense as well. Elba. The real thing. Before he left, he told Karim that he was going to return, like Napoleon from Elba. And then, he went to Elba. Gonzalo’s romantic, historic metaphors were all a mess. He wanted to reach out, over the velvet rope to touch wallpaper, to touch the stuff that Napoleon had once touched. To rub his hands all over that stuff. Stuff that had steeped in global importance for centuries.

He stood in the study, where Napoleon had plotted his return and where he mourned Josephine, if Karim's extensive ramblings on the subject were anything to be taken seriously. Gonzalo’s own location of plotting his return to France was in his other school’s Office of International Study. A helpful counselor had given him brochures to three different universities in France.

There was a painting on the wall, across from a bench in the lobby, where Gonzalo inevitably found himself again.

“It’s on loan from the Louvre,” the welcome desk woman said helpfully, still in her unfluent English. Gonzalo nodded. Napoleon stood alone on St. Helena, staring out into the ocean, wondering when he’d return. Probably a globally important painting, but a personally important one, too.

A loud commotion started in the lobby when the French tour concluded and spilled into the gift shop. An old woman with a cain sat down next to Gonzalo, also glanced at the painting, “Is that Napoleon on Elba?”

“St. Helena. He was all alone on St. Helena,” Gonzalo said.

“I know,” the woman said, jutting her thumb out, gesturing towards the gift shop, “That’s what the tour guide said. His sister and mother visited him here.”

Gonzalo glanced over to where the woman pointed, towards the French language tour guide who would only be there for the summer. Gonzalo stood up, wading through the crowd, as though time had stopped completely. Gonzalo stood in front of the tour guide, who was around the same height and same weight as Gonzalo himself. Gonzalo was nearly breathless, “His mother and his sister visited him here?”

The tour guide smiled, charming crooked teeth, saying in casual unstudied French, “Elise and his mother stayed with him here, while he planned a return.”

“How did his return go?” Gonzalo asked, though he knew the answer.

“Not so well,” the tour guide replied, “Then, he went to St. Helena and we all know the rest of that story.”

“It didn't have to go that way.”

“Life rarely goes the way we would like it too.”

Gonzalo reached out and flicked the tour guide's elbow, “It can, though. It really can.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading! You have all been so kind in the comments!
> 
> Author's Note 1: The first eight chapters took place in 2003 and the last one took place in 2007. I didn't really make that clear in the earlier chapters, but I figured since there was the mention that Álvaro didn't know what Facebook was, in this last chapter, it might be a little awkward.
> 
> Author's Note 2: This (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Napoleon#mediaviewer/File:Napoleon_sainthelene.jpg) is the painting that is mentioned to be from the Louvre. It's not really.
> 
> Thanks again everyone! Have a happy new year!


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